


Many Firsts

by 1sendai



Series: Many Returns [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little healthy pining, Bottom John Watson, Bottom John is implied, Chapter 2 is a bit smutty, Explicit foreplay, First Time, Fluff and Crack, For mature audiences anyway, Happy ending or happy beginning, I don't think the sex is explicit but I went with the E rating to be safe, I think it's non-explicit sex, I told you I wasn't very good with tags, I'm not very good at tags, John and Mary Break Up, John and Mary's baby will be fine, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mary is not very nice, Men finally getting it on, Men spending too much time in their heads, Mycroft is Crafty, Non-explicit m/m sex, OOC, Very OOC-you have been warned, i forgot to mention the most important tag, i really don't know what i'm doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1sendai/pseuds/1sendai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First published in FF for Letswritesherlock but not actually entered into Letswritesherlock (as far as I know) under my FF psued of sendai.</p><p>John leaves Mary and is happy to return to 221B, even if it's only for a short time. Sherlock deduces John and they dance around each other as usual...until they don't. Which leads to the need for mature rating and some smutty times. This is crack and the characters are OOC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd and not Brit-picked. So I apologize in advance for mistakes. Also my first time posting on A03 so I may have more mistakes and formatting problems than a blogger writing his blog while locked in a closet with a hedgehog, an otter and a consulting detective who is wearing three patches. 
> 
> This work is being translated into Thai by the gracious mocchafreppe. The link is:  
> https://bananaonthecake.wordpress.com/2015/3/22/translated-fic-many-firsts-1/

**Many Firsts**

John sat in the old armchair (his old armchair), sipping his tea, which had been steeped the right way (not her way).

Looking in from the outside, his life was a shambles, a debacle, a catastrophe...

John smiled faintly, dropping his head back and relaxing for the first time in ages, because from where he sat in this red, over-stuffed chair (his red, over-stuffed chair) life was finally back to what it was supposed to be.

It was worth the bruise on his head to be out from under her talons once and for all. Now he and Lizzy could start their new lives together, without her.

Sadly, HE probably wouldn't want a boring old, single parent like John hanging around, but maybe, once in a while, perhaps, just occasionally, HE'D allow John to help on an occasional case?

John Watson felt rather than saw the consulting detective rush past like an express train. Looking up, he saw the express come to come to an abrupt stop, as if someone had pulled the emergency break. In slow motion, the train crashed into his chair, leaving his endless legs stretched out in front of him. His long fingered hands rose to his chin, no doubt praying to the god of endless cognition.

Naturally, there was no, 'Good morning, John!'

No, 'Eggs or waffles, John?'

Not even a, 'Why are you in my flat, unannounced, at 0830 in the morning, wearing my dressing gown, while Mrs. Hudson apparently has had to wash your clothes. Oh, and by the way, did you know your mobile is broken, John?'

Of course, the first two questions were the product of wishful thinking (meaning delusional thinking) on John's part. The final two questions were unnecessary. The doctor assumed that his dearest friend had already deduced all the salient points and was waiting to spring it all on John, whenever it would be the most dramatic. And this made John very happy indeed.

'God, this…this is heaven,' thought the doctor closing his eyes and sighing in a sort of wistful contentment, and pulling the borrowed dressing gown shut. The robe kept slipping open without warning; silk was such tricky, slippery stuff. But it was soft and smelled of his best friend, so John secretly reveled in it, while making sure that it stayed tied shut.

The blogger smiled again (Sherlock still let his blogger blog about interesting cases), and the blogger sighed again, contentedly wistful, because it didn't matter if Sherlock didn't speak to him for hours or even days at a time, or if the great detective played the violin at strange times, or even if the git left body parts all over the place, because finally, finally John was home...

...at least for a few hours.

'Might as well enjoy it while I can ', thought the doctor, sighing and telling himself it was fine.

John opened his eyes, and as expected, saw Sherlock, immaculately dressed in his bespoke black suit and sexy too-tight purple shirt.

'Ah…no, not sexy. Remember, we do NOT go there,' John chided himself sternly. 'Remember HE'S married to his work, which is fine; it's all fine.'

The consulting detective raised his brow, acknowledging his former flat mate's unexpected appearance in 221B on a rainy Wednesday morning. The lanky brunet leaned forward, elbows balanced on his bony knees, fingers steepled together, glacial blue eyes scanning John Watson, boring into him, deducing him.

God, 'I've missed this' thought John feeling irrationally pleased. 'Sherlock will deduce everything.' (Well, hopefully, not THAT. Everything except THAT. Except THAT is what I came here to tell him. Still, I'm sure he won't deduce THAT, and when I do tell him THAT, he'll be shocked. Then he'll say he's flattered (but not really mean it), and he'll say he's married to his work, which is fine. I don't mind, really. Then we'll get back to normal-almost. But he'll know the truth. I won't have to live in fear that he's going to deduce my stupid feelings for him at the absolute worst possible time. And there's always the possibility that he'll want me too...or not. Which is fine...just fine...)

John smiled hopefully at his best friend and waited for Sherlock to deduce everything (except THAT, well, maybe even THAT, because then John won't have to say anything at all about THAT).

The doctor could feel the smile waver on his face while he waited, worrying about THAT.

"You and Mary argued, again," said the younger man, beginning the deductions. "A bad argument, again. Your mobile phone was killed when it deflected the bullet...no...the knife...no..."

"Oh for God's sake. She broke it when she lobbed it at me," said John, smiling as the familiar flow of deductions began.

"Ah, that explains your headache and the contusion. I suppose I should be grateful she didn't leave you with a concussion," said Sherlock. "But there was a knife, which means she broke our agreement and now I can..."

"Never mind the knife; it was mostly just for show. Besides I disarmed her," said John, proud of disarming a dangerous, highly paid, international assassin without spilling a drop of baby formula. The blond smiled and nodded at dark chocolate curls and razor-sharp cheek bones and the sound of a deeply rumbling voice- in other words, at the man, who John secretly loved more than the rest of the world...aside from Lizzy. John loved Lizzy and Sherlock more than anything else, and to hell with the rest of the world. He loved Lizzy like his own daughter, because she was his daughter. And he loved Sherlock like a brother because…because that's the way it had to be, although the former soldier wanted so much more. But it was fine; it was all fine. John leaned back and basked under the detective's intense scrutiny and did not pine for more.

The World's Only Consulting Detective eyed his best friend (who should be more than his best friend), who for once seemed happy, albeit exhausted. Which was…unexpected, because lately John was always miserable and exhausted, not happy and exhausted.

(Well, of course John (my John) is always miserable and exhausted. Between caring for a young infant, working in a dull (deadly dull) clinic, and avoiding the attention of that harridan witch, which the doctor (my doctor) stubbornly calls his wife, it's a wonder that John (my John) was able to crawl here at all."

The World's Only Consulting Detective pouted behind the tapered index fingers that rested lightly against his lips. (I can't even bring poor John (my poor John) on a case without Mary carrying on like a fishwife. And he refuses to leave her until 'the time is right', whatever that means! And if she's done more than bruise him this time, if she hurt Elizabeth (my goddaughter, Elizabeth Shirley), then I shall eliminate Mrs. Watson- even if John never speaks to me again. At least they (my family) will be free of that little bleached-blond witch.')

('Brother mine,') interrupted an imaginary Mycroft, who intruded his bulk even into Sherlock's mind palace, ('John Watson is becoming suspicious of your conspicuous pause without deducing him. If you don't wish your goldfish to discover the depth of your pedestrian sentiments, I suggest you say something rude and insensitive almost instantly.')

"As usual, John, you look awful," said Sherlock instantly and insensitively.

Oddly, John's grin broadened, lighting up the gloomy sitting room as only John could do (aside from John's infant daughter of course, because she had inherited John's ability to conduct light.)

"You dropped Elizabeth off at daycare, thirty minutes late due to another disagreement at home, and then you walked here in the pouring rain, risking pneumonia, because you're short of cash and too stupidly proud to call anyone (ME) for help. At least you came here to lick your metaphorical wounds again, where you can get a mouthful of decent tea and some care for your actual wound, which incidentally should be iced, which you, as a physician, should have already done. Of course, you'll insist on returning to that house, even though it makes you miserable. You'll return because 'you're a man of your word', and because the time's 'not right', whatever that means, and because of a piece of paper and some vows which are meaningless, since the woman who signed the papers and promised to love and cherish you never even existed," Sherlock paused for breath, expecting John to argue, again.

Instead, his blogger sat, smiled and looked…different. It was puzzling. Sherlock had an irrational urge to go to John and hold him, except Sherlock never cuddled anyone…except of course Elizabeth, who looked like a miniature John Watson, but who wouldn't squeal about not being gay. The puzzled detective stood up abruptly saying, "I shall get you the ice bag for the contusion on your head."

The tall detective left his bemused friend in the sitting room as he strode into the kitchen to retrieve the bag of frozen peas, which was used as an ice bag. He carefully checked to ensure that it was the frozen peas and not the bag of frozen bile stones. He did not want a repeat of last month's debacle, when a similar bag containing frozen, sectioned toes defrosted and leaked all over John's trousers. John had been quite displeased at the mess, (Sherlock had expected that John would try to punch him again.) And Mary…Mary had looked so smug and superior, taunting Sherlock with her smirk, as if to say 'You don't deserve him; you could never take care of John properly, you FREAK.'

"You needn't try to hide the bruise, I'm sure even Anderson would have noticed it, " said the detective coldly, as he pushed John's hand away from the contusion, gently parting the doctor's blond-brown-graying hair to examine the goose egg on John's (my John's) temple.

The doctor squirmed, complained that he was fine, and then allowed Sherlock to place the bag of frozen peas on his head, after first ensuring that it was indeed only a sealed bag of legumes and not a bag of frozen body parts like last time.

John shuddered at the memory of that grizzly episode, all that foul, nasty, smelly stuff melting and then leaking into his hair, and over his wound and finally staining his trousers too.

And she had looked so smug about the incident too, 'As if to say, 'Look how badly Sherlock treats you, my dear, stupid, trusting John.' John had been most displeased.

He'd wanted to say that body parts aside, he trusted Sherlock a hell of lot more than her. John had found himself wanting to punch the woman, who pretended to be his wife. He'd never punched a woman before, but she tempted him. Sometimes it was just very hard not to clock her just once, but so far, John had managed to restrain himself. He was a bit proud of that restraint actually, especially since she herself exercised no restraint at all.

'At least, it's all over now,' thought John. Thankfully, she hadn't even threatened to kill him or Sherlock… unless her seeming acceptance was all a ruse. John pulled nervously at his lip, wondering if she was plotting some kind of revenge after all.

Sherlock retook his seat, plucking his violin discordantly, as he watched his occasionally idiotic conductor of light (who should be MY husband) smile stupidly, for no good reason, especially considering that he was married to an international assassin, who had attacked him with a mobile phone and who could be plotting against John even now...

Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the situation. (That Morstan woman has struck my John (yes, MY John) for the last time. I WILL intervene. I could initiate Operation: Goodnight Mary. Or, I could frame her for murder and let the police handle her of her, which would inevitably lead to the involvement of MI5, the FBI, the CIA, Interpol, MI6…But wait, I know! I will simply expose her recent hit on Boris 'the Barracuda'. No doubt Boris deserved to die, but still, her actions were illegal- manslaughter, if not murder, in the eyes of the law. Certainly, John Watson cannot complain if I am merely following the law and...'

'But wait, wait ...There is that 'different something'. He's still smiling stupidly. Why is he smiling? He rarely smiles anymore, not really. And even his eyes are even smiling this morning (his beautiful blue eyes are shining again; Elizabeth has his eyes), and his eyes never shine anymore. And his hands are relaxed and not trembling. And he's not checking the clock or looking behind him and..."

Sherlock sat straight up, his mouth gaping in shock saying, "Something's different this time."

John blinked, smiling, no John was grinning.

Sherlock could only think of one thing that might make John relax and smile again.

"You...you've left her?" asked the detective, hardly daring to whisper his deduction.

"Um-hm," John nodded.

"Why? Why did you leave? Did she hurt you?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "Did she threaten Elizabeth? Did she cut you with that knife? I swear ..."

"No! God, no. She's never, ever hurt Lizzy, you know that! And I've been very careful when I'm alone with Mary, since… Well, as I said, I got the knife away from her and as you can see, there's no damage done," said John, dropping the frozen peas and holding open his hands as if to display his supposedly un-damaged condition.

(Aside from your head wound, John, for which she WILL PAY…somehow), thought the younger man.

"Anyway, I did provoke her. She wanted me to go with her on holiday to Belarus. I told her, 'no, I would prefer a divorce.' I probably should have been a bit more diplomatic, but it just came out. She threw my phone and it ricocheted off my head and fell to the floor and broke. But aside from the phone..."

"Oh! You left because you still think that the baby isn't yours," said the detective. "In spite of the paternity tests, which I oversaw, you still worry that Elizabeth is David's child."

"No, I trust the tests," said the doctor, putting the icy bag of vegetables back onto to his sore head. "At least I trust the tests that you ran...Did I tell you that she was shocked when I told her that I had paternity tests run."

"She was surprised that you doubted her, after her blatant affair with David?"

"No, she was surprised that the baby was actually mine. Even she was sure it was David's."

"I still think you should let me threaten him a little," said the sullen consulting detective. "I know where he lives."

"No, no, no, leave David alone," said the doctor wearily. "I don't care that she cheated on me. Since that day...since she shot you...well, I really don't care what she does. Besides, I've left her; it's done with."

John smiled again as the words echoed throughout his head, 'I've left her; it's done with…I've left her; it's done with. I left..."

"Will you sue for custody..."?

"Oh God, yes!" exclaimed John. "I don't think she'll fight it though. Once she realized that I meant to leave her, she seemed only too eager to ditch little Lizzy too...unless she's plotting something. But I don't think she is-plotting that is. After she broke m'phone, and I won the knife from her, she just stormed out of the kitchen and started packing… You know, I think she may be having an affair. Not with David, he hasn't gotten over his disappointment that Lizzy is mine. No, I think she's found someone new..."

"Yes, of course, that would be James," said the consulting detective offhandedly, because he was still trying to deduce the 'Why?'

(Why now?) Sherlock wondered. (If he didn't leave Mary over her infidelity or because of her abuse, then what made him leave her now?)

"Wait? James? James who?" demanded the curious doctor.

"Sholto, of course," replied Sherlock, answering pensively.

"James Sholto? Really?" asked John, wearing his adorable confused face-the confused face that made Sherlock's doctor look like a Shar-Pei. Sherlock restrained himself from standing up to pet his doctor...and then kiss those worry lines away...and then...

"You mean they...Mary and James? Major James Sholto?"

"Yes." agreed Sherlock, smiling, (John was such an idiot).

"When were you going to tell me?" demanded John.

"I thought you knew. Everyone knows,' Sherlock announced with militant nonchalance, because everyone did know, well almost everyone...

"Everyone who?" asked John, now wearing his endearing soldier's belligerent face.

Sherlock had to restrain himself from lunging forward and nibbling on that angry jutting chin. But no, he couldn't nibble on John, because John, 'wasn't gay.'

"Everyone who's anyone knows, John," said Sherlock with unusual patience, just because it was John.

"Everyone who? Specifically?"

"Their trysts made it into the gossip columns, John," explained the detective. "It will be simpler to list the people who didn't know: such as people currently in a coma, or people living Tibet and who also do not have access to the Internet, or you, or..."

"Yes, yes. Fine. Everyone knew about my wife and one of my oldest friends having an affair-except me, comatose patients and Tibetan hermits," muttered John, who scowled like a disconsolate Shar-Pei.

'And that.' ruminated John, 'that probably explains why the spotty boy at the newsstand is always so impertinent. Why be polite to the cuckold. It's probably why the cabbies never stop for me. Why stop for the wimp whose wife is sleeping with one of his oldest friends. That's probably why Mycroft is such a dick to me...no, wait, Mycroft was a dick long before I met Mary, but still…"

"I miscalculated," said the consulting detective, sounding surprised at his own miscalculation. "I really thought you knew."

John glared and imagined all the cabbies laughing at him behind his back...with the newspaper boys no less.

John felt like an idiot.

'I'm an idiot,' he thought to himself in humiliation. 'I'll have to take Lizzy and move out of London. We'll have to move to the ends of the earth-to someplace where no one reads British gossip rags. We'll have to move to America-to some place like Cleveland...or Duluth...or, God forbid, New Jersey.'

"You are not moving to New Jersey," said the consulting detective decisively.

John dropped his red face into his hands with a groan. He was so embarrassed that he didn't even wonder how Sherlock read his mind-again.

'I'll never be able to show my face again in London,' thought the humiliated doctor, 'because even the cabbies and newsboys are laughing at me behind my back. Stupid, how could I have been so stupid? I should have dropped Mary the day HE came back. I should never have married her when I loved HIM. I should have let Magnusson have her...no, wait I'm forgetting about Lizzy. It was all worth it for Lizzy, even having to live in New Jersey is worth it.'

"No, John," said the detective. "We are not moving to New Jersey... Not unless there is a case that's a ten-an absolute ten, not an almost ten. And even then, even with a ten, we could only reside in New Jersey temporarily."

"We?" asked John weakly, feeling a tiny bit less humiliated as the detective's words sank in.

"Yes, obviously."

"It's not obvious to me."

"That's because you're an idiot."

John smiled, because it was true, he was an idiot.

"What about Cleveland?" asked John, after a short pause.

"I'd have to consult with Elizabeth."

John snorted, "She's only two months old."

"And yet I'm sure she'd disapprove of New Jersey or Cleveland," said Sherlock. "Which brings us back to the question, why?'

"Why what?" asked the doctor, who now remembered that he frequently got confused when staying at 221B.

"Why you left Mary!" Sherlock almost shouted.

"Oh, well, now that she's gone back to work..."

"Very good, John!" the detective congratulated John and beaming proudly. "I didn't think you'd notice that she was working again. No one could blame you for leaving her under those circumstances, although why you care what people think is beyond even my comprehension."

"Don't be daft!" snapped the blond. "Of course, I noticed she was working! And I didn't leave her because of her part-time nursing job. But now that she's back on her feet working and stuff, well, I just felt it was finally the right time, to leave her; you know?"

"You mean you didn't leave her because she's returned to her job as an assassin?"

John leaned forward, wearing his rather cute, dropped-jaw, gob-smacked look, while allowing his robe to gape open invitingly. Sherlock hastily reminded himself that John was 'not gay'. Besides a gentleman would never take advantage a man who had just left his assassin wife, not to mention, it was bit not good to peek at the goods of another man who wasn't interested because he 'wasn't gay'.

However, Sherlock did not consider himself a gentleman. So he did peek, which suddenly made it imperative that he find a way to take advantage of John, even if he 'wasn't gay'. There had to be a way. Sherlock Holmes was a genius, so obviously he should be able to conceive of a way to not only seduce John Watson, but also to secure the affections of the former army doctor, before the hapless man fell into the clutches of yet another ruthless female predator.

Then the ever-observant detective noticed John's helpless goldfish-out-of-water face. It was endearing, of course, but a subtle sign, that perhaps John had not been aware of his wife's second, rather more lucrative, job. Perhaps this was upsetting for his blogger.

(This is not good, Sherlock,) said mind palace Mycroft, unnecessarily.

"John, delete everything I said after the word Cleveland," suggested the brunet.

The doctor was very quiet.

(Perhaps, he is quiet, because he is actually deleting what I said?) thought the detective hopefully.

(No. John is too quiet, besides John doesn't know his to delete his hard drive, because he's an idiot (my idiot).)

"John."

"John."

"John!"

"W,who did she...kill?" stuttered John finally.

"Again, rather a long list..."

"You must be joking," whispered John, in horror.

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I thought a joke might break the tension. She's only made two hits, plus the one she did while she was carrying Elizabeth. You know, no one suspects that a pregnant woman could be dangerous. I think she may use that as a cover rather more frequently now."

"Jeeze. God. Jeeze," sputtered the doctor, gathering his robe together, much to the consulting detectives disappointment. "Sherlock, you can't make jokes about things like that."

"Why?" asked the curious detective.

"Well, because...because... um…"

"See, even you can't come up with a good reason, John."

"Never mind!" snapped the doctor. "Look is she...dangerous?"

"Well, she's a rogue, former CIA hit-woman, of course she's dangerous!" said Sherlock in a loud, annoying, half-whine.

"Oh God!" cried John, bending down and holding the back of his head, making it impossible for Sherlock to see John's face, let alone his physique. "Oh God!" repeated the doctor.

"He's not likely to intervene, John. Primarily because god doesn't exist."

"Oh. My. God," said John repetitiously. It was dull hearing John repeat himself, but Sherlock would put up with even more repetition for John's sake. Besides, suddenly the robe slipped open again and that was decidedly not dull.

"Sherlock, I meant... is she dangerous to Elizabeth?"

"Mary has not proven to be a very nurturing mother," said Sherlock studiously studying John's previously uncharted territory. "Nevertheless, I seriously doubt that she would harm her own child."

"No but...her employers...they might come and..."

"Never fear, John," said Sherlock bracingly, "The problem can be solved by studying your uncharted territory..."

"What?" asked John. "What territory?"

Sherlock felt his face heating up. Surely, surely he hadn't actually misspoken, surely he, Sherlock Holmes, wasn't blushing. This was unprecedented.

John blinked; he'd never seen his best friend blush. Not even when that dreadful Woman tried to seduce him. Of course, Sherlock's dreadful Woman wasn't as dreadful as John's dreadful wife...but, soon to be ex-wife, thank God.

And Sherlock was definitely blushing for some unfathomable reason. It was sort of cute. And kind of sexy...

'And you promised yourself not to think like that,' thought John reprimanding himself sternly. 'Sherlock doesn't think of you as sexy, John Hamish Watson, so just stop thinking sexy thoughts.'

Of course, that just made the doctor think about sex all the more. He thought about sex with a man. About sex with a man who was tall, and strong and amazingly intelligent and virile and so damn close that John could have reached out his hand and touched HIS knee, and then HIS thigh, and then...

"Never mind, John. I meant, we, meaning Mycroft and um, me, so we could send Mary into uncharted, well new territory, territory that…um..." said Sherlock losing his train of thought, because John I'm-not-gay Watson was developing a hard on-while sitting in a room with only his best friend for company…his best male friend.

(Interesting!) thought Sherlock Holmes, narrowing his eyes speculatively, the whole Mary and uncharted territory disaster was immediately shelved.

'Embarrassing!' thought John Watson, who hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice his arousal; even though it was obvious that Sherlock had instantly noticed. John turned a nice deep red, like a good cabernet, but he still didn't realize how little the gaping robe hid.

(Brilliant!) thought the detective, trying to hide his glee.

'God, he'll see that I'm lusting after him. Now I really will have to go to New Jersey,' thought the doctor.

Then John made his own observation, 'Good God, does Sherlock have an erection too?'

'Amazing!' thought the doctor, trying not to stare longingly at his best friend's lap.

(Embarrassing) thought Sherlock as he observed his friend's observation. (yet intriguing,)

The brunet leaned forward, wearing a predatory grin.

John saw his best friend leaning closer to him, while wearing a predatory grin.

Now John was not deductive genius, but he wasn't a total idiot. This meant something. The doctor thought about it hard, trying to use Sherlock's methods: Sherlock was staring at him-staring at dull, ordinary John Watson, while sporting an attractive blush and an impressive boner. Furthermore, Sherlock hadn't complained about being bored even once this morning (this was very significant). Finally, Sherlock had not rejected Duluth out of hand; in fact, the World's Only Consulting Detective had implied that he would accompany John and Lizzy, should they need to immigrate to the United States to avoid the impertinence of newsboys and the insults of rude cabbies.

Of course, this led to one conclusion, or rather to two possible conclusions, the doctor decided. Either Sherlock had a dressing gown fetish OR Sherlock was ready to breakup his own marriage to The Work to have an affair with John. Which logically made John the other woman...well, the other man, considering the fact that Little John hadn't been this hard in half a decade or more.

John blushed again, because really, what self-respecting middle-aged man gave his penis a nickname.

'Dear Lord, the cabbies will have a field day if they find out about 'Little John', thought the doctor. 'Then again, if someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes is interested in me, then why the hell should I care about what cabbies or newsboys think. Bloody hell, I KNOW how to deal with troublesome cabbies, don't I? Well, don't I?'

John recalled the last time he had dealt with a troublesome cabbie and felt more than a bit empowered.

The genius of 221 Baker Street watched the emotions play across his friend's expressive face. From confusion to embarrassment to interest to lust to embarrassment to soldierly determination. Really, the whole show was quite breath taking, almost as breath taking as the show going on in his friends lap.

"Sherlock!" cried John a bit too loud.

"Mmmm?" Responded the smug detective.

"Sherlock, I have to tell you something. Something important," began John, placing his hands firmly on his knees to brace himself for any and all possible outcomes, which also augmented his display nicely. "Now, I'm not very good at this...at talking about my...about emotions, which," here his mouth pursed, "you know from...well from that time in the subway and at the airstrip and..."

"Yes, yes, yes, John," interrupted the now eager detective, "I understand that you are uncomfortable expressing your emotions, yet you feel the need to emote, so please just spit it out."

"Dammit, Sherlock," exclaimed the doctor standing up, "I can't talk to you about this if you interrupt me...now I can't remember what I was saying..." The former army doctor assumed parade rest, without adjusting his robe.

Sherlock found this extremely distracting.

"John, I think I know..."

"No...please let me finish," said John. "You...you asked me why I left Mary. I think that you must know that while I cared for her in the beginning...cared for her a lot...I never loved her...because," his mouth twisted as if it was wringing out the reluctant words. " Because I was always in love with someone else."

Sherlock reared back as if stung. (Always in love with someone else. Always? That implies a romance of longstanding duration,) thought Sherlock. (Has my John been pining for that Sarah all these years...No, that's just stupid...Maybe, maybe he loves Sholto. Mary implied that John and Sholto...)

"Sherlock, please don't go into your mind palace just yet," asked John sadly. "Look, just hear me out, and if you hate what I'm saying, you can delete it, yeah?"

John received the infamous sideways glare.

'Oh God, he doesn't want to even listen; he certainly won't welcome my inappropriate affections,' thought John. 'I've misread the whole thing...'

"Oh God" muttered the blond aloud. 'Tell him, don't tell him, tell him...' John stewed in an agony of indecision-. 'No, I can't go on like this. It's better to be open and honest. Anyway, he's got a hard on, and that's got to be a good sign and maybe he'll let me touch him. No, stop thinking sexy thoughts about Sherlock. Just stop it!' John ordered himself. 'Right! This is stupid. I planned to tell him. I will tell him-now.'

"Sherlock, I have it all worked out what I want to say...so just, just listen. First of all, I'm sorry..."

Sherlock heard the apology and saw John stiffen his already stiff back. (Clearly,) thought the detective, (John is finding it hard to say goodbye to me. At least his friendship towards me remains undiminished... The question remains, who? Who does John love?...Probably Lestrade. He's always admired Lestrade. And the man is moderately fit.)

(And both of them like watching football.) sneered mental Mycroft. (See, caring is not an advantage. As soon as you care for someone, they run off with a beer drinking, football-watching fool of a doctor.)

(Don't you mean fool of a detective?) Sherlock asked himself, or rather Mycroft.

(No, I mean doctor. I had plans for Lestrade, as you well know. And now that fool of a doctor is going to abscond to New Jersey with my goldfish,) spat mind palace Mycroft.

(Ah yes, New Jersey. No wonder Lestrade's computer was littered with Google searches for Atlantic City,) thought Sherlock with remarkable self-control. (The detective inspector plans to steal my best friend, my (almost) lover and my godchild (almost child). I could kill Lestrade...but that would make John unhappy, so no. I will not make John unhappy. Besides, I can hardly blame Gavin for falling in love with someone as wonderful as John Watson.)

(Not to mention, if you hurt Lestrade. I would be forced to retaliate.) said Mycroft, with a significant look at the short blond, who'd just finished his prepared speech.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered to his insufferable sibling.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" cried John who'd gone deathly pale. "I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it...well I meant it, of course. But never mind it. Can't you just delete what I said about loving you? Then we'll just go on as before, yeah?"

Sherlock's mind palace went dark and utterly silent, as his neurons ceased to function.

Finally he managed to take a breath and whisper a very hoarse, "What?"

**TBC**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in this chapter John and Sherlock do somethings for the first time. A lot of it is implied. This is the chapter where I think it earns an M rating. I really don't think it's an E, but since I haven't found a 'How to Rate Your FanFic for DUMMIES' page, I'll just have to guess. As with tags, I really don't know what I'm doing. Anyway, it's all for fun and yes, the characters are OOC.

*******PREVIOUSLY FROM CHAPTER ONE*******

*****(Not to mention, if you hurt Lestrade. I would be forced to retaliate.) said mind palace Mycroft, with a significant look at the short blond, who'd just finished his prepared speech.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered to his insufferable sibling.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" cried John, who naturally thought the words were for him. The doctor turned deathly pale and stuttered, "I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it...well I meant it, of course. But never mind it. Can't you just delete what I said about loving you? Then we'll just go on as before, yeah?"

Sherlock's mind palace went dark and utterly silent, as his neurons ceased to function, because he didn't _want_ to delete anything, especially not the bit when John said that he loved Sherlock.

He managed to take a breath and whisper a very hoarse, "What?"...*****   

 

**Many Firsts Chapter 2**

"What? What? " repeated the detective. "What did you say? I believe that I may have missed something."

"I just told you...Wait, you weren't listening to anything I said, were you?"

"Yes. No..."

"You went into your bloody mind palace again, didn't you?" accused John, his Shar-Pei forehead wrinkling in righteous indignation. "I know you think sentiments are stupid."

"You know nothing," said the detective, grabbing John's shoulders.

"Well, as for that..."

"Say it again."

"Well, as for that..."

"Not that."

"Then what?"

"I didn't hear you properly," said the detective slowly spinning the doctor around, " Tell me again about your feelings."

"What, so you can mock me?" said John, torn between anger and sadness and frustration and the fear that he'd have to really move to the U.S.A. without Sherlock. However, John Watson could refuse Sherlock nothing, and he sighed in defeat. "Fine. You are a git, and I also love you...and not like a brother, as I was trying to tell you."

"Thank goodness for that," said Sherlock, with a tiny smile curling up the corners of his mouth. "Because Mycroft and I don't get along."

"Sherlock, you're making me dizzy."

"Sorry, I know," agreed the genius. "I think too fast for you to keep up."

"Well, sometimes that's true," said John. "but it's this crazy spinning thing you're doing that's making me dizzy right now. "

Sherlock stopped spinning his doctor.

"Why are you spinning me and more importantly, why do you hate me?" asked the doctor.

"Like most people, you use very little of your brain, John. The spinning is a way to narrow your focus, ensuring that are certain of what you say and also that you remember everything later, because this is monumental," said Sherlock, his intent gaze boring into the older man. "Now listen carefully. I don't hate you."

"But you said, 'I hate you!" cried John.

"I was talking to Mycroft, but never mind him," the detective said to a very confused ex-army doctor. "Now, John, you stated, and I quote 'You are a git, and I also love you'. John, do love me as a potential romantic partner?"

John twisted his head, afraid for a moment to admit it, then he gave a little nod, "Yes. Yes, I do," affirmed the doctor with another nod for emphasis. "I love you, Sherlock."

"That's brilliant!" announced the detective, who beamed beatifically.

John risked a small smile, "Um...if it's so brilliant, does that mean...um..."

"Yes. It means you'll be mine now and I won't have to share you with anyone."

"Except Lizzy. "

"Obviously, but Elizabeth is a miniature female you, so that doesn't count," said the younger man. "You will both be mine, to not share with anyone."

"Sherlock?" asked John, raising his brows hopefully.

"Yes, John?"

"Does this mean that we might kiss...um, eventually?" asked John, with an uncertain smile.

"Of course. Of course that would be bothering you."

"No, not bothering me...but..."

"Yes, it is." insisted the consulting detective. "You're going to get nervous about two men kissing, because you're 'not gay'." He added irritating finger quotes.

"No," said John shaking his head.

"You're going to over-think it," said the taller man. "just like with the sex, which you'll want, but then you'll worry about being in a homosexual relationship, and get all frigid and repressed."

"Oh? So there'll be sex then?" asked John, thinking about sex again, but much more optimistically. Little John was feeling optimistic too. As soon as he thought about his nicknamed body part, John began to blush.

"See, even now the thought of a homosexual tryst puts you off, making you blush," said the detective. "Nonetheless, you are adorable when you blush, John."

"No! That is NOT why i'm blushing. And I'm certainly not adorable," said the doctor adorably.

"I suppose I should kiss you now," mused the genius. "Before you have an opportunity to think about it any further. Your ceaseless ruminations…"

John had enough talk. He'd go slow, uncertain just how much Sherlock could handle.

'The man might look like six-feet of unbridled sex but what if The World's Only Consulting Detective is inexperienced or actually a virgin or asexual or afraid of sex or just afraid to be touched,' thought John. 'It's fine. I'll go slow. I'll be patient, go only as far as Sherlock wants. I don't mind.'

The former army doctor reached one hand around the talkative genius's neck. Sherlock was still going on about John's inhibitions, 'probably projecting,' thought the doctor with a fond smile. 'I'll give him a safe little kiss, to let him know how I feel.'

John tugged the genius, who was still talking a mile-a-minute, pulled him down into heartfelt yet very chaste kiss.

He grinned sweetly at the taller man who had stopped talking and who now frowned. John's smile faded.

'Oh what's wrong now?' thought John, eyeing the detectives frown with deep concern, 'I don't understand...I thought he wanted...He said he was going to kiss me. Did I do something wrong? Was I supposed to wait? It was probably too much. Maybe he really does hate to be touched...Oh God! I don't understand!'

(That's it?) thought Sherlock. (After waiting for years, all I get is a stupid little peck on the mouth from John 'Three Continents' Watson, the Casanova of Qandahar?)

'Oh GOD! Maybe it's me.' thought John, loosening his hold on Sherlock's neck. 'Maybe I can't even kiss right anymore. I should say something-anything. What, what the hell should I say?'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, he wanted much more than an affectionate peck. He could get an affectionate peck from Molly any day. From John, he wanted more. He wanted everything.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have...no. Um...sorry" mumbled John backing slowly away. "It was my mistake...um...um..." John licked his lip nervously and then bit it.

John's face went from red to white; it twisted itself in confused consternation.

(No doubt John is now in the full throes of his 'but I'm not gay' identity crisis. Just listen to those inane apologies,) thought Sherlock. (The little idiot (my idiot) is going to burst into tears any second...He's backing away! NO! NO! NO! I'm losing him! This is intolerable!)

The detective firmly set a hand on each side of his blogger's face. He bent down and took John's lips, pressing a hard, almost bruising kiss against the ex-soldier's mouth. The taller man turned his head slightly to optimize oral contact. When John gasped, Sherlock used the doctor's parted lips to his advantage. He licked the smaller man's lower lip, then slid their lips back together into another kiss ending with a bite to his doctor's lower lip just once-not too hard, but hard enough to make sure John didn't try to back away again, (because THAT would be intolerable) Then the taller man licked over the red, swollen, nibbled lip, the lip that John always teased him with, the lip Sherlock had coveted for so long...

(John's always licking his lip, biting his lip. He worries at it just to tease me,) thought the detective, as he devoured John's mouth. (And now it's MY lip. Now I can lick it. I can bite it. It's mine. Mine. All mine.)

The detective slid his tongue inside John's unresisting mouth, claiming it too, and finally tasting the doctor (HIS DOCTOR) (Ohhh! Yes. Yes. YES! Now this is kissing,) thought the smug consulting detective. (If I keep him busy enough, John won't be able to have a sexual identity crisis. If he's full of endorphins, he'll be too happy to worry about being gay. I'll make him so happy that he'll want to be gay.)

Someone moaned.

John was frankly astonished when Mister I'm-Married-To-My-Work, began to ravage his mouth. It was hard to think while his mouth was under such an amazing, glorious assault, but John still wondered why he had labored under the misapprehension that Sherlock might be a bit shy when it came to sexuality.

'It's mostly Mycroft's stupid fault. Mycroft- with his stupid 'Sherlock's still a virgin' shite. Stupid, stupid Mycroft.' thought the doctor, who was dizzy all over again, because Sherlock was a damn fine kisser, making John forget how to breathe, never mind thinking...A. Damn. Fine. Kisser.

Sherlock nibbled and sucked on the shorter man's lips, as if they were gourmet delicacies. Which they were, decided the detective. They were his gourmet delicacies.

As predicted, John was better than any drug...and they hadn't even started on foreplay yet.

(It's Christmas!) shouted the chuffed detective in the sanctity of his mind palace. (John Watson is Christmas, and cocaine, and a locked room murder all rolled up in compact package of John-ness). Mind palace Mycroft tried to interrupt with complaints about sentiment, but was bundled back into the nearest closet and locked away until further notice.

"Delicious," muttered Sherlock, his voice low and sinful. His lips moved over John's face-ever so slightly rough even after his morning shave. He traveled over to an ear (which had also been teasing him for quite some time.) He breathed his voice into his doctor's perfect ear, murmuring a deduction and feeling John shudder and moan under his skillful ministrations. Of course, John's ear was also perfect for nibbling on, just like the doctor's perfect lips.

Someone moaned; John was pretty damned sure that the moan came from his own mouth. His hands had found Sherlock and he clung helplessly to the strong, sinewy arms. Of their own volition, his fingers kneaded firm muscle while Sherlock Holmes ravished him with his lips and tongue, his teeth and...and...and that voice, which simply oozed with chocolate-coated lust.

John was overcome by chocolate-coated lust, which perhaps explained why he just stood there passively. Well, and he was still a bit overwhelmed by the Sherlock's NOT afraid of sex thing too.

'Damn!'

'Bloody Hell!"

'Dammit, soldier,' thought the former Captain Watson, 'don't just stand there like a virgin sacrifice, get some for yourself.' The former soldier shuddered (and possibly moaned) and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Then gave up thinking as a lost cause; he abandoned reasoning, after all, 'Sherlock's here, and he's way better at thinking and reasoning anyway. Let him do it."

'Captain! We are now running on auto-pilot!'

"Bloody right!'

Recovering from his initial shock, John rose up on his toes, and attacked Sherlock's soft, pink, pouty lips, which had figured so prominently in the doctor's fantasies. Now John could lick and taste the real thing. Now he finally, finally could suck on that delectable Cupid's bow. And now those large, talented hands were running up and down his sides, which was distracting-but in a good way. John didn't mind. He liked it. He relished Sherlock's touch.

'Too bloody right.'

Captain Watson was on auto-pilot and just kept kissing HIS lips, HIS jaw, under HIS jaw and...

'Oh, oh my God. Just... HIS skin is soft, but prickly, where he missed a spot shaving-GOD! Oh God! That’s HOT!' And back to those lips of One-Thousand-and-One Nights of fantasy. More kissing-nothing gentle now-just the hard forceful meeting of two men, who had been starving for one another for too damn long. 'Fuck, I sound like a bad romance novel,' thought John. 'Must be lack of oxygen from too much kissing. Who cares, I don't care!'

"I don't care. I don't..." muttered John in between kissing biting, sucking. 'I don't care if I ever breathe again. I don't care if I DIE from kissing. biting. sucking..."

John did not have the faintest idea of whether he spoke out loud or not. He didn't mind.

'sucking his lips and OH! Sucking on his tongue!' John moaned again, and arched toward the fire of Sherlock Holmes, because that man's truly enormous hands were caressing him underneath the silk dressing gown, which had magically lost its belt. And John was just a poor moth who could never resist circling closer and closer to Sherlock's flame. 'A really, really bad romance novel...' thought John again. "A really bad, really sexy romance novel.'

Which was fine.

Because John secretly loved romance novels. He thought he might write his own romance novel someday. He'd write about chocolate-coated lust, and sneaky hands that burned and chilled with their touch, lips just made for kissing and deep, sinful voices that broke out from deep underground to utterly wreck poor ex-army moths...

'Too bloody right, I will.'

John moaned loudly as his tongue battled with Sherlock's; there was no question that the moans had all come from John. But this time his moan drew a low, nearly subsonic rumble of need from his partner.

Which was more than fine.

Sherlock was impressed. Because John was incandescent. After the first few minutes, when John (his John) was doing a very good impression of a deer-in-the-headlights, the former soldier, known as 'Three Continents' Watson, had suddenly rejoined the game, illustrating with his mouth some of the reasons why he'd been so popular among the ladies.

(Was popular. Ladies, note the use of the past tense. John 'Three Continents' Watson will no longer be available to any of you…Ever Again,) thought the detective.

In fact, Sherlock took a moment's pause, to place a notice in the foyer of his mind palace recommending that Sherlock prevent any potential rivals from coming within a within a six foot radius of John's very talented mouth. In addition, potential rivals would be defined as all persons between the ages of twenty and sixty unless they were comatose or Tibetan hermits…upon further deliberation, the detective decided that practicing Tibetan hermits would not considered threats, but former hermits might be potential rivals and were therefore subject to the restriction...Then he added, trespassers to be removed without prejudice.

As John's very talented mouth began working on Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's skillful hands had begun to map out the previously undiscovered territory of his doctor's body. His John's skin was mostly smooth and soft, his chest lightly dusted with hair. But the detective's sensitive fingertips felt the scars, which life had littered over his soldier.

Mostly they were old scars. Sherlock knew about the old shoulder wound, of course. But there were others, about which he knew nothing (yet) and a few newer scars-not even really scars yet. These were softer, still tender, probably pink or red-if he'd been able to see them. These were recent injuries.

The consulting detective made himself another notice regarding these newer injuries; it was past time to plan Mary's departure.

John had managed to unbutton several of those stupid, fiddly little buttons on Sherlock's fitted shirt, exposing the base of that long, pale neck and what seemed to be acres of smooth, white chest.

Naturally, as Sherlock's personal physician, Doctor Watson had seen this skin before and it had featured in a few of his fantasies too. But now he could touch the alabaster skin with his lips and tasted it with his tongue. He could run his hands over the firm flesh, making himself ache with want, making him moan.

The blogger was working on a gorgeous love-bite, which was sure to turn a beautiful shade of plum, when he came to several realizations.

First, he was moaning a lot. He'd never been this vocal before. He'd never been this hard before either.

Secondly,the silk robe had slipped off his shoulder; he was all but naked in front of Sherlock Holmes and, as noted previously, hard as a rock and wanton as a whore. And while this made him blush, he decided that he liked it, A lot. It was daring, dangerous and it led to the next realization...

…Sherlock had boldly grabbed his arse, and was squeezing it. And John rather liked this too. He liked this very much, which was why...

… Little John was rutting to be honest against a lean, firm, smartly dressed thigh, which had driven itself in between John's legs, presumably for just that purpose. And there was more.

...Sherlock was murmuring deductions into John's hair. They were not the usual sweet nothings, which lovers told each other. Of course they weren't. Sherlock murmured that John was his and if anyone came within six feet of John, Sherlock would make him or her disappear.

'Which is ridiculous. We'll have to lay down some ground rules about being overly possessive...later,' thought John. '...like tomorrow later.'

…And Sherlock murmured about how stimulating he found John's firm biceps, not to mention John's firm gluteus.

'Thank God I joined that gym!' thought John, who like the fact that Sherlock Holmes found him stimulating. John bit and sucked a bruise just above his lover's collarbone.

… And Sherlock commented on John's new shampoo, which Mary had purchased and which John was NEVER to use again, because it made John smell like a fruit salad. And Sherlock had a much better hair product in mind, one which would make John smell like sex, and which he'd use on John's hair when they showered before picking up Elizabeth...

...and for the first time John realized that Sherlock always called Lizzy, Elizabeth.

'Isn't that cute?'... ... ...'Wait, I'll smell like sex? That's hot!'... ... ...'Wait, we're going to shower...together? Oh God! Yes!'

John moaned again, loudly, hoping that Mrs. Hudson had gone out for, for something, anything.

The detective was still exploring John's body and still muttering into John's hair, but he stuttered briefly when John discovered Sherlock's rosy-brown nipples, which had been hiding under the silky smooth, purple shirt-of-sex.

'God I LOVE this shirt,' thought John, gently sliding the shirt apart.

The doctor's capable fingers circled a nipple, then rubbed gently, then rubbed harder, eliciting a deep, dark groan from his lover, followed by sub-sonic words of encouragement.

"Mmmm, yess." moaned the chocolate covered voice of sex, "Yes, there...brilliant, John. Brilliant...My John. My brilliant John."

'God, I love his voice,' thought John. 'I love being brilliant too."

John Watson gabbled something back to show how much he loved Sherlock and his mouth and hands and voice. Sadly, John found he was babbling like an idiotic, "Oh God, oh God, Sherlock." Sometimes he also made embarrassing moaning sounds too. Sherlock seemed to like the nonsensical blithering and the moaning, so John didn't mind at all. Indeed, he gabbled more, "Sh,Sherlock...God you're so...beautiful, so perfect...God, yes..."

Then the doctor couldn't babble because he was sucking on one of the delectable little buds on Sherlock's chest. And he, John Hamish Watson, was making William Sherlock Scott Holmes groan and arch his back into John's mouth.

'Oh God...Oh, God! Oh..." thought John, who had never been this turned on before, proving that he was probably gay after all or at least bi-sexual. Little John agreed enthusiastically, so it was all fine.

...Then the genius started deducing into John's over-sensitized ear again. He deduced John's appendectomy scar.

'...which was easy. Anyone could have deduced that'.

...Sherlock deduced that John went to the bank yesterday.

'How? How could he possibly have...'

…Sherlock deduced that the long healing cut on John's side was a knife wound, and Mary caused it, and Sherlock had a plan for Mary.

'Which is probably a bit not good,' thought John, as he blew gently and skillfully on the pebbled bud, before he nuzzled it, rubbing his face against Sherlock's sculpted chest and gaining Sherlock's stuttering approval.

'Sherlock's plan may be bad news for Mary,' considered the doctor, as he ministered to the other side of his detective's chest. "But what's that to me? After all, she isn't very nice. She's not any nicer than that cabbie. Of course I could handle her myself. I really don't need Sherlock to protect me...although it's kind of hot when he does get all alpha male protective on me. Yeah...hot.'

'And speaking of hot...'

...Sherlock was scorching hot and showed no signs of being a virgin. The younger man certainly wasn't alarmed by sex.

'I must have been an idiot to think that Sherlock was a virgin or that he was really married to his work. I am an idiot to have wasted all this time not kissing every inch of Sherlock Holmes," thought John.

And then John found himself caught in a solar flare; John was being burnt alive, because, 'OH MY GOD! He's touching me THERE. No one's touched me THERE in years...years, and years, and years...and I'm going to come right here, all over his expensive suit, unless I stop this. Oh God...I...should stop...him. Ohhhh.'

"Ohhhh, st, sto...uhhnnn," groaned John, clinging to Sherlock. "Oh, G,g,god...ohhhhhhuhhhnnn"

('Of course, strong, silent, repressed John would be vocal, once he's pleasured by someone who understands him, like me. And of course, John is a natural bottom. I knew he was a bottom...and a tiny bit submissive too,) deduced the domineering detective. (Just look how well he takes orders. Look how well suited he was to the army. Look how beautifully he pushes back against my finger. My beautiful, gorgeous John would fuck himself against my finger until he ejaculates without any manipulation of his phallus... if I let him. But will I let him? Should I let him?)

"S,sto...stop" gasped the doctor.

"What? Why" rumbled Sherlock, his voice improbably low pitched. Then a crease formed between the detective's eyes, as he looked with concern at his flushed, debauched blond, who was unsteadily backing up. (Oh God, I've scared him off. I pushed him too fast. I haven't given him enough time to go through his sexual identity crisis, although I did think that nearly five years would have been long enough,) thought the detective. ('No. I was Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Or maybe I hurt him? Did I hurt him?')

"Sher...Sherlock...we have to...stop," gasped John.

(No, he doesn't seem hurt, or upset. And he's kissing me again; using his lips, tongue, teeth...John (MY John) doesn't really want to stop-so not a sexual identity crisis then. My John probably thinks he's being a gentleman, when really he's just being an idiot (MY idiot. My idiot forever.)

"We have to...stop," muttered John, between kisses to Sherlock's jaw and lips.

"Why?" asked the taller man again.

"Because...because...your trousers," said John, who suddenly found complete sentences beyond his grasp. "Get them dirty. Dry clean only."

"Easily solved," said the determined detective, who unbuckled his belt to remove said trousers.

"Oi!" squeaked John. "But...shouldn't we take it...ahhh, slow?"

It was clearly hard for his doctor to think when confronted with the evidence of Sherlock's arousal. And John didn't really want to go slow anyway, not with that painful looking erection. Clearly, John was not 'not gay'.

"Slow?" growled Sherlock. "I've waited years for this. I've done slow. And now, my dear doctor," said Sherlock, leaning towards the wide-eyed, swollen-lipped blond. "Now, I am done with waiting. You are mine; I am taking you, now."

"T,taking...me? As in..." began the incredulous doctor.

"Yes, I shall indeed take you, John. Unless you say no, and I am sure from your dilated pupils, racing pulse, adorable flush and impressive, rock-hard erection that you are not going to say no," deduced the detective. "Now, I plan to prepare you properly. I've deduced that you've been fingered before, and loved it. As you loved it just now. But you've never been properly buggered, have you? I can see from your eyes and your pulse that you want to be properly bugged. So I intend to fuck you so hard, that you won't be able to walk. I will make you forget any lover you ever had, except me."

John was drowning in those glacially blue eyes and in the sinfully rich voice of the god of sex.

"Oh god, yes," murmured the mesmerized medico.

 

* * *

 

 

(I was right, of course) thought Sherlock, taking a long, deep, satisfying drag on the last cigarette that would ever be smoked in 221b. After all, it would be irresponsible to smoke in the flat after a baby moved in (Not just a baby, John's baby...maybe...someday...maybe,  our baby?)

The detective looked down at the blissed-out blond, who sprawled half onto his lap, with a vague half-smile adorning his face. The doctor was so dazed that he hadn't even noticed that Sherlock was smoking, not only smoking, but smoking in bed. Normally this would have had the doctor frothing at the mouth, but then John's mouth was probably a bit tired and sore.

Sherlock smirked and traced a finger over John's swollen pink lips, noting a small bruise and the little cut that had bled into Sherlock's mouth. John just smiled in a sort of half-paralyzed euphoria, his blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

(Oh, I WAS RIGHT.) thought Sherlock again. He did not notice that he was repeating himself, probably because he was high on John. (I was soooo right. John is most definitely a natural bottom. And such a good, tight bottom. And just as responsive and just as receptive as I'd imagined…actually, John is much more responsive and receptive than I imagined. And I was definitely right. Right about John-my John. John. John John,) repeated the detective who for once did not find reiteration dull, but after all, how could anything be dull when it concerned John.

Sherlock puffed on the second to last cigarette that he would ever smoke in the flat, now that little Elizabeth Shirley was moving in.

(There was certainly time for one or even two more last cigarettes.) he calculated. Sherlock was high on John, not brain damaged, and he could estimate how long he had before the self-imposed smoking ban began.

The detective stubbed out his cigarette and then scrunched himself down, so that he could embrace his dazed, adorable doctor. (MY DOCTOR). After three orgasms, John was more than pliant, so he flopped and snuggled into Sherlock's shoulder with a contented hum and threw his arm around the taller man's waist.

(And of course, John's a snuggler. I knew he'd be a snuggler) the detective thought. (I suppose I can put up with some snuggling, for John's sake...from time to time..as long as it's with John, my John.) thought Sherlock, once more nuzzling into John's (MY JOHN'S) soft hair. The languorous detective recalled that he his two very satisfying orgasms. (Count them TWO orgasms, both inside my John), Sherlock chortled to himself and cuddled eagerly with his blogger.

John couldn't help but make a happy little noise when his lover, rumbled happily like a giant purring cat and rubbed his face into John's hair. His lover was a ridiculous man- refusing to let John get out of bed. Tugging John back into bed for cuddling, every time John tried to stand up-just like the little tabby cat John and Harry had owned so many years ago. Ridiculous, beautiful, brilliant, cuddly cat-man...

"You said that out loud, you know?" pointed out John's ridiculous boyfriend.

"Sorry."

"No, it's all right," said Sherlock reaching out for one more smoke.

"Mmmm," said John, humming with post-ecstatic joy. "That! That cigarette is your last cigarette," added the doctor, 'because even if Sherlock did short out my brain with the World's Best Sex...and dear God, he's right, I am a natural bottom...Still, it's not as though I can't smell his bloody cancer sticks, stinking up the room.'

"You said all that out loud too, John," said the smugly smirking detective, who kissed John's head, then his forehead, then his temple, then his cheeks..."and it's the second to the last cigarette that I'll smoke in this flat."

"Second to the last one...ever," murmured John, tilting his head so that he could receive more kisses, while threading his fingers through Sherlock's disastrously tousled curls. The curls felt like silk, wet and sexy.

"Mmmm," agreed Sherlock ambiguously. Then, just to make sure that John didn't trick him into any promises about quitting smoking altogether, Sherlock changed the subject. "What color do you want Elizabeth's room to be?"

"Hmm?" asked John, wrinkling his forehead in confusion.

"Her room, John, her bedroom upstairs, do keep up."

"What color? What?" asked John, who was quite unable to keep up.

Confused John looked just like a bemused little Shar-pei, thought the affectionate detective. Sherlock knew that he was a bit irrational just now, even, in fact, a bit sentimental. He knew that this was because he was still a bit high on endorphins and oxytocin and getting what he wanted (twice) (three times in John's case) (and Sherlock could die happy just recalling the visuals and sounds of John coming apart for him three times)...not to mention that Sherlock was so damned right, as usual.

"John, we are discussing Elizabeth's new bedroom, obviously. I took the liberty of painting it blue, like her eyes, which are just like your eyes, you know… ...but we could paint it pink, if you insist." This last was said with contempt, because Sherlock hated pink, as did Elizabeth.

He had tested Elizabeth's color preferences rigorously, and she was most assuredly happiest around the color blue, and miserable around pink. So he added, "But I cannot recommend pink. Elizabeth likes blue and hates pink. Which was probably one of the reasons that she was unhappy at Mary's house. Mary insisted on painting Elizabeth's room that frankly alarming shade of pink. Soooo, I painted her room blue, knowing that you would not be a slave to gender stereotyping. Still, if you don't like blue, which is Elizabeth's favorite color, I suppose Elizabeth and I might go in for turquoise or green. Perhaps a nice pale green with hints of blue…"

"No. No, blue...blue's fine. Of course it's fine, but... are you suggesting...D'you want us to move in here?"

"Well obviously! I hate that house you live in, almost as much as you do," said Sherlock, foregoing his second to the last sanctioned smoke, in favor of kissing his boyfriend (soon to be husband...Although I should probably wait to tell him that we're getting married. The poor man is already confused over the obvious. Probably still high on endorphins and oxytocin and cortisol on top of the fact that he's an idiot. My beautiful,) Kissing. (handsome,) Snogging. (lovely idiot). More kissing.

"Besides," added the tall detective, cuddling his blogger close. "It will be easier to keep undesirables away from you, if you live here, (everyone meaning everyone between the ages of twenty and sixty). And, as a bonus, as long as we live here, Mrs. Hudson can babysit Elizabeth."

"Mrs. Hudson is our landlady, not our babysitter," murmured John, who crawled on top of his incredibly handsome and ridiculously tall lover so that he could more easily kiss said lover.

"She's Elizabeth's godmother. Mrs. Hudson wants to babysit. She's looking forward to it...and when she's not available, I suppose I could always call on my parents," said Sherlock with a moue of distaste. "They'd be over the moon to babysit Elizabeth, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Of course, they want to. They've been waiting for you to call and ask them to babysit," said the detective.

"And you want me to move in here, with Lizzy?" muttered John. He smiled dreamily, his fingers making lazy trails up and down Sherlock's jaw and across his cheekbones. Suddenly, John tensed, "I suppose I'll have to talk it all over with, her. At least until everything is settled legally. And I'll have to go home to pack, and talk and argue and... unless she really did go to Belarus…"

"Nope! All taken care of," said Sherlock, nibbling on John. "She won't be a problem anymore."

"Oh no…Good God! What...what did you...how could you? Look, when the hell did you have time to take care of Mary?"

"After I got you off for the third time, and you all but passed out after screaming so loud that one of the married ones next door banged on the wall. I think it was Reggie pounding on the wall and telling you to shut up. He's the one who works from home and he hasn't been getting any recently due to the stress that Arnold is undergoing at work," mused Sherlock. "And it was after you thanked God, and thanked me and thanked the academy..."

"No I didn't," scoffed John, who wondered if maybe he did do that. He vaguely remembered screaming and being handed an Oscar...

"Yes, you did. I recorded it on my phone," said Sherlock, holding his mobile well out of the reach of the shorter-armed man. "Frankly, John, it was adorable."

John groaned, adorably.

"The point is, you were temporarily compromised, so I went ahead and texted Mycroft, asking him to implement Operation: Goodbye Mary."

"You, you killed her? But that's, that's too drastic. No..."

"Don't be an idiot, John. She is technically still the mother of our...I mean your child. I did not have Mary killed. Mycroft will invite Mary- whose real name, ironically, is Angel- to make a great deal of money by taking care of some issues in Eastern Europe."

"Oh God, the issues that will be fatal in six months or less?"

"Yes, and no. Same issues. However, we are 70% certain that she'll not only succeed but even survive," said the detective. "And if she does survive. Mycroft will probably be able to keep her and Sholto busy overseas for several years..."

"James?"

"Yes, nice touch that. She'll have some one to pretend to care for, when the mood strikes her, and he'll have someone to live for, when he feels down. It gets them both out of the country and away from the people who would like to see them dead. And there are a lot of people who want them dead. Best of all, it will keep both of them away from YOU."

John nodded. It was a very good solution. Tied up lots of loose ends. And he really didn't want to see either of them anymore.

'It's not so much their affair," thought the good doctor. 'It's all the lying and cheating. And it's more Mary than James. And dammit, it's the shooting of Sherlock-that was unforgivable. And then there were the threats and...'

"John, you still seem a little dazed," said the consulting detective who cuddled up even closer to his doctor.

"M'fine," said John, returning back to the matter at hand. "Okay so you want us, Lizzy and me, to move in with you?"

"John, we've already covered that, but yes. I wish you to move back in to your home here with me. And by the way, you should say, 'me and Elizabeth' not' Lizzy and me'. I realize that society has all but forsaken the finer points of proper language and grammar..."

"But you're sure about us moving in someday soon?"

"Not soon, John. Now. Today," snapped the detective. "Today, as in, some of Mycroft's minions are bringing over Elizabeth's cot and some clothes, nappies and bottles..."

"Really?" said the physician, with narrowed eyes. His lips pinched together as his slower, yet not stupid brain began to turn over all the data. "This was all planned? And what was this operation called?"

"Hmmm," hummed the detective. "I think we have just enough time to have a quick round of shower sex..."

"No. No more sex for a few years, or at least not for a few hours. What was this operation called," asked the stubborn doctor.

"Fine. You insisted, so do not complain to me. It is called Operation: John-Comes-To-His-Senses. And incidentally, Operation: John-Comes-To-His-Senses automatically triggered Operation: Goodbye Mary so that everything is being accomplished in one well-thought-out swoop," said Sherlock, reaching for his second-to-last cigarette after all. "As a part of the plan, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have already secured Elizabeth, with the assistance of the British government. Molly is directing the minions in packing up enough necessities so that you and Elizabeth can spend a day or two here, without worrying about such tedious details as packing, and without having to worry about exposure to Angel or the Major. Oh! And Mrs. Turner is getting that dreadful house listed for sale so that you won't begin to worry about that too, which you surely would. Mrs. Turner has a certificate, you know."

"Operation: John-Comes-To-His-Senses?" asked John with asperity.

"Yes."

"And everyone knew but me...again."

"Hmmmm. Yesss... but only five of my homeless network were involved this time...Sorry."

"And the only name for this mission that anyone could come up with was Operation: John-Comes-To-His-Senses?" asked John.

"So it's the name of the operation that concerns you. Good, really good , John. If it makes you feel any better, Lestrade wanted to call it Operation: It's-About-Fucking-Time," said Sherlock, thoughtfully blowing smoke away from his non-smoking boyfriend (soon to be husband. It's a relief that John is taking all this so very well. Much better than I expected. Molly was right, I should have made John move in with me, the day Elizabeth left the hospital.) "Molly suggested, Operation: Push-John-Off-The-Fence."

John snorted. "So it's all my fault?"

"Actually, no. They do think you have been a bit too reserved and repressed. Molly says you're insecure. But no, they don't really blame you" said Sherlock with a pout, because everyone actually blamed him. "If you must know, they give me the lions share of the blame, because of...well, because of the time when I went away," admitted Sherlock. Both men frowned. "Sorry again."

Somewhat to Sherlock's surprise, John's frown faded quickly and he snuggled in closer.

(Clearly NOT angry. Excellent! Shower sex may be back on the menu. Although John's arse and his mouth might need some time to recover fully. No matter, there are plenty of other things we can do, especially in the shower."

Sherlock's smirk returned.

"It seems like you have my life all planned out," John murmured into his lover's pale, nearly hairless broad chest.

"Do you mind?"

"I should, but I don't," said John, running his foot up and down Sherlock's long stretched out leg. "How long do we have before people come to gloat over me coming to my senses?"

"No time at all," quipped Mycroft.

"JESUS!" shrieked John, trying to drag the soiled bedclothes over his bits, and then over Sherlock's bits and then over his bits again, because the bedclothes were very tangled and uncooperative. Sherlock was unmoved, and he enjoyed one of the last cigarettes that he would smoke at 221b. He did not offer a cigarette to Mycroft.

"Jesus," muttered John repeatedly as he fought with the sheets. "Jesus."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, that man is not one of your deities," drawled Sherlock, while smoke poured from his mouth as if he were a dragon, "This is only the British Government."

"Just a minor official, I assure you. Well, brother mine, while you were staking your claim, everything thing else has been taken care of," said Mycroft standing in the doorway, completely unaffected by the sight of the debauched, naked men in front of him. "I took the liberty of stopping by in person because neither of you is answering your phones."

"John broke his phone with his head. I turned my phone off because I do not want to be disturbed when I'm having sex with John," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock," hissed the small tousle-haired doctor, simultaneously embarrassed and concerned for his infant. Clearly, last was the more important of the two. "What if the daycare tried to get a hold of you? You are the alternate emergency contact."

"Don't be an idiot, John," said the detective. "Elizabeth is with Mrs. Hudson. Besides, Mycroft is always monitoring..."

"Indeed, I have been monitoring, which is why I am here, even if I despise legwork," said the British Government. "In fact, I am here to inform you that Mrs. Hudson, the infant and their escorts are less than twenty minutes away. Perhaps you will want to get him cleaned up?" Mycroft cast a disapproving eye at the doctor.

"Yes, perhaps," agreed Sherlock noncommittally, casting an approving glance at his obviously well-shagged lover (three times!), "Well, Mycroft, I suppose I should say thank you."

"Well, that's a first. I don't think I ever heard you thank him," muttered the doctor, who wondered why he needed to be cleaned up and Sherlock didn't.

"A day of many firsts, John," said Sherlock kissing his soon-to-be husband, but wisely refraining from any mention of Operation: Two-Men-a-Baby-and-a-Wedding, the name having been selected by Mrs. Hudson and Mummy, after Sherlock rejected Operation: Reluctant-Bridegrooms (a stupid name because one of the bridegrooms, Sherlock Holmes to be precise, was anything but reluctant.)

"Many firsts?" asked John recklessly.

"Yes, John," said Sherlock. "Today is the first time you said that you loved me, not like a brother."

John nodded with a small smile.

"It's also the first day that we kissed," John nodded with a faint pink flush.

"It's the first time we had sex together, the first time you bottomed with anyone...you are a natural at it, too..."

"Sherlock, shut up!" protested the doctor with a strangled cry.

"...the first time you gave a blow job…well done, by the way. I nearly passed out," the arrogant git grinned happily. "The first time you had sex on a table...oh, wait. No..."

Sherlock frowned as his brother shook his head. (Damn Mycroft for out deducing me again!).

"No, it was not in fact the first time you had sex on a table, but it was the first time you had sex on a table with a man ravishing your beautiful arse, the first time you had three orgasms in less than two hours since you were in college… no, three orgasms in less than two hours is a first…Kudos to me!"

John tried to spontaneously combust but only managed to achieve a brilliant crimson color.

"The first time you had any sex in eight months," continued the detective. "The first time I had sex in..."

"Stop. Please stop..." said John weakly.

"Do stop bragging, Sherlock," said the British Government, "I wouldn't want to see the poor man go into apoplexy before the wedding. Now do try to get your doctor out of bed, if he can walk, and clean him up. And don't forget to scour that table. Scour it twice…in fact."

"Why me? Why do I have to get cleaned up and he doesn't?" said the doctor, clutching the twisted sheets in front of himself and missing all the significant data-as usual.

"Because Sherlock doesn't care who sees the semen drying in his hair," said the practical bureaucrat.

"Why should I?" demanded the arrogant detective.

"Oh God!" choked John. Even if Sherlock didn't care who saw the mess in his hair, John did care. "Oh dear, God."

This was clearly an urgent matter- no time for modesty. John stumbled out of bed. Those vigorous, repeated sessions of sex did make walking a challenge for the doctor...

'Was it three times? Really. Damn, I wouldn't have thought Little John had it in him,' thought the doctor proudly.

So, nothing daunted, he staggered toward the bathroom, dragging his boyfriend behind him.

"John, there's no point in showering right now, and I wish to smoke one of my few remaining cigarettes.'

John, despite being a natural bottom with submissive tendencies, was also decidedly stubborn once his mind was made up. The former captain lowered his brows, flexed his muscles and pulled his lanky lover into the bathroom.

"Besides, John, I don't think we have time for our first round of shower sex..." said Sherlock, before the bathroom door slammed shut, muffling the whining voice of Mycroft's little brother.

Mycroft smiled and walked to the kitchen, gently swinging his umbrella from side to side. Giving that table a wide berth, he started to make tea for himself for the first time in months. He grinned freely for the first time in ages, because for the first time in over a decade, he no longer had to worry about Sherlock Holmes.

When he heard the shower finally come on, Mycroft laughed out loud for the first time since he could remember, because Operation: Sherlock's Goldfish was an unqualified success.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this fic. Please leave a comment if you liked it, or didn't like it, or if you found errors, or if you just want to say 'hi!' 
> 
> Is this where I should put the regulation disclaimer? If so, please note that I do not own the rights to Sherlock or any characters/plot created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or characters/plot created for the BBC production of Sherlock.
> 
> Right. Thank you all for reading :D


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